


Pallbearer

by Cygna_hime



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, M/M, weird dream shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-02 01:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cygna_hime/pseuds/Cygna_hime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pallbearer

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this awesome picture: http://faun-songs.tumblr.com/post/16658265815/let-the-prince-lead-his-page

You’re not supposed to be here.

This isn’t your domain, even as nominally as Derse is. You’re in danger here, not as much as Jane or -- as Jane would be on Derse, but still well outside the bounds of anything that might be termed safety. That’s even aside from the early-onset clusterfuck you could set off if an incognito agent sees you flying around or someone goes into your empty tower. All your misdirection could be wasted with one nosy carapace.

You don’t give a fuck.

It’s not like you try to make an entrance or anything -- there’s a time and a place for dramatic entrances, and this is neither -- but you aren’t exactly inconspicuous, purple against gold. The crowd has all the time in the world to place you as you drift down, putting on your best poker face just for them as you wonder if they’ll keep you from landing or let you land only to shove a knife in your back as soon as your feet hit the stones. It’s not like you’d blame the Prospitians for deciding that a prince for a prince was a fair trade, even though in your opinion blowing up Derse itself and everything on it (except maybe Roxy) wouldn’t be enough to make this shit anything like fair.

All they do is back away a little and look at you. You wonder what they're thinking. You wonder how to play this so they walk away a little more likely to fall in line with your plans in future. You wonder if somewhere with line-of-sight on this place there's a Dersite agent who's made the biggest discovery of his career.

You see the bier.

You don't wonder anything at all.

He looks different in the gold. Older, maybe. Still the same features. His eyes are shut. He looks strange not moving. Like another person. But he's not. He's Jake.

You can't stop yourself from doing a quick check-in with your other body. You don't have cameras on Jake -- that would be somewhat beyond the bounds of reasonable behavior -- but he agreed that putting some kind of sensors in the robot you sent him would be a good idea, in case of medical emergency. He's there, vital signs normal. He's fine.

While you were paying slightly less than half your attention to the crowd, they moved in closer. A receiving line, or the funerary equivalent, is moving past. None of them touch -- the body. They just walk by, a curling snake of gold and yellow that never ends.

You ignore the line. Privilege of royalty. Instead you just walk straight up to the head of the bier. It's a nice bier. Fancy carving, nice flowers. Doesn't look like a rush job, but who knows? Maybe speed-memorials are the Prospitian specialty. Flowers selected while you choke.

Someone should say something. You think that someone is probably you. But you can't think of anything to say, for once in your life. What do people usually say? This is your first funeral (you'd bet anything it won't be your last). There's nothing you can say to the people of Prospit to make this better, and Jake can't hear you. Maybe you should say something to him anyway. Maybe...no. There's a Jake you can still say those words to, out there in the waking world. You're not going to waste them now. Besides, this isn't about you or your feelings. This is for him.

You take your glasses off and tuck them in a pocket. It's not a confession, but you wouldn't do that for just anybody. (You suspect the confession is written all over your bare face, anyway.)

They're getting ready to take the bier somewhere. Prospitians step up, four and four, and take hold of the sides.

That shouldn't be their job. He might have been their prince, their hope, but they never really knew him. He shouldn't be going surrounded by strangers, even a sleeping half of him. You should be with him, you and Jane and Roxy. Maybe it would be too heavy for the three of you if it took eight of them, but you'd manage it. It's the least of what you'd all do for him.

You really wish the girls were here.

You'll just have to do their part for them, then. You nudge the nearest Prospitian out of the way and grip the bier where his hands were. He looks at you, and for a moment you're petrified that he'll say something, ask you why, and you'll have to form words when your throat is so tight you can hold it together or breathe but not both. (Is this how he felt when -- don't think about it. Hold it together. Breathing is optional.) You must be breathing after all, because he nods and backs off after just looking at your face.

It's heavy on your shoulder. That's how it should be. You keep your shoulder even and march in time with the guy -- girl -- on the other side, slow, too slow. Jake should never go anywhere this slow.

They're all watching, lining the streets like it's a parade, but no one's cheering. They're murmuring something, you don't bother hearing what. Some of them throw flowers into the street. Some of them are crying. You're not surprised: caring about Jake has to be the easiest thing in any world.

You're crying too.

This is stupid. It's not really Jake's body weighing heavy on your shoulder, not the Jake you've talked to. This Jake never even woke up. Jake is out there on his stupid island, chasing his weird-ass animals and laughing up a storm. He's fighting your robot and chatting with Jane and Roxy and watching terrible movies and smiling and breathing. This is just...a spare that won't get used.

Apparently the message is getting lost en route to your stupid fucking tear ducts and stupid fucking heart. They only know that Jake is lying on this slab dead, and there's so much you never said, did, shared, and maybe he's alive, but he's also dead. Even if no one but you ever knows in the waking world, you know. You lost him, and the fact that he's still there doesn't take that back.

When you get right down to it, everyone's crying. You're just fitting in.

Eventually, they wind around to some kind of crypt, and there someone finally stops you. It's a Prospitian man in something like a suit, and he looks kind, you think. You've never really seen their faces up close before.

"Royalty is not permitted to descend," he says quietly.

If it were any other day, you'd snark back something about the obvious exception that's lying on the bed, but you can't find the words, just like you can't go with Jake any farther. You nod and let him take your position, and the bier goes on, in the darkness where you can't see. After a few minutes, a sigh goes around the crowd, like they've felt something you haven't, and they start to disperse.

You might as well follow suit. You put your glasses back on and turn to the sky. You've got a long flight back.


End file.
